Ground Zero
by Lala Kate
Summary: A chance meeting in an unusual place. Two strangers brought together in a way neither imagined.
1. Chapter 1

_This hit me out of the blue last night, and I had to write it all before I could sleep. Feedback is most welcome and appreciated. :)_

_Own nothing...love it all._

* * *

He stands staring at a sea of flowers, faceless yet staggering, each one representing a person, each one remembering a life. White roses he has chosen, as he chooses every year. Something about them whispers her name, their scent too close to how he imagines their baby would have smelled if he had been given a chance to live.

"I still miss you," he breathes into air now silent, the rustle of the city around him somehow suspended and slurred as the blooms are laid down as an offering. Four years, he thinks, wondering how so many days and hours have passed since two planes forever changed this place he calls home as they cruelly robbed him of everything he held close.

Four years of cold sheets and take-out boxes, of sleepless nights and punishing runs at dawn, of numbness and anger, of wishing it had been him instead of her. Memories blur as her face does at times, and he despises himself when her features become indistinct in his mind.

How he wishes he could have known what his son looked like.

What use is he to anyone, he ponders too often—a firefighter recognized for bravery who couldn't save his own family? He swallows down bitterness, his most faithful companion, balling his hands into fists as he turns to leave.

It is then he realizes he is no longer alone.

He has seen her before, he is certain of it, and he stares at her blatantly, recognizing the look of hollow grief she wears as fragile armor. Features cast in marble against hair black as night, she is not a woman one would easily forget nor would approach without caution.

"You were here last year," he voices, glancing her direction once more before returning his focus to the memorial.

"As were you," she returns, her gaze fixed straight ahead.

"I come here every year on this date," he offers, sliding his hands in his pockets for warmth.

"As do I," she replies, staring down at her boots. "It's less crowded the day after."

He clears his throat, his heart constricting yet again.

"Precisely."

She takes the lone rose that she carries and lays it across his white ones, bringing to mind the image of a drop of blood on a field of snow.

"My wife," he states, making her turn and meet his eyes head on for the first time.

"My fiancé," she returns, not protesting when he takes her hand within his own.

They say nothing else, remaining immobile in the wind as fingers tighten and tangle and begin to caress barren skin. Then bodies stand closer and a look is shared, understanding passing unspoken as they begin to walk, still connected in more ways than they can comprehend.

They both know what is and what isn't, and names are withheld even as bodies crash and merge. Cries and pants are absorbed into shoulders and mouths, sweat is tasted, no parts left untouched. Then tears come in waves, shaking both limbs and spirits in a physical cleansing long-overdue.

They remain intertwined, clasping and breathing, touching in need, reaching out and holding on lest they lose themselves in something that threatens to break them both.

She is gone when he awakens, the sheets where she had lain in his embrace still warm and rumpled and smelling of her. He rises quickly and walks naked to the window, hoping to see her, knowing he will not, now wishing he had asked for her number, for her card, for her name.

He feels hollow in a way that is new, an emptiness created by soft curves and defined planes now etched in his psyche. He starts as he realizes she has taken a piece of himself with her, wondering how this is possible when he was certain he had nothing left to offer.

Weeks go by, slurring timelessly into months, and he returns to Ground Zero, paying his respects, missing his wife, hoping to see _her_. But she is never there, and by summer he begins to wonder if their paths will ever cross again.

Meals are sometimes cooked, runs occur after the sun has risen, and one morning he looks in his mirror and accepts that he is still living. His wedding band is removed and set in a box, and he smiles at his tattoo for the first time since her death, remembering the day he surprised her with it. _The Lionhearted_, she had called him—her firefighter, her husband.

She would want him to live.

September returns, and so does his hope. He spends more time in the gym, makes certain his beard is trimmed neatly, and he laughs at the fact that this woman makes him nervous. He wants to see her again—he needs to hold her again—yet part of him is terrified by the prospect.

_The Lionhearted my ass_, he thinks to himself.

The day arrives, and he takes his place early, determined not to miss her, praying she will come. But hours pass, people move back and forth, and his stomach begins to protest as the afternoon wanes on. He stands, needing to move restless legs and stretch a back that reminds him of his age and profession more often than he would like. _She's not coming, _he tells himself, trying to steel himself to disappointment, knowing he has set himself up for imminent failure.

But then he turns back to where he had been sitting. And she stands just there in the distance.

His heart leaps in his chest, and he almost feels like a teenager, awkward and hopeful, gangly and unsure. He moves in her direction, wishing he could call out her name, and he sees her lay the red rose on the memorial.

And then she deposits a white one.

The breeze stirs yet again, clarifying her details in his memory as his tongue remembers her textures and tastes. But he stops in his tracks, realizing there is something different, trying to take in what his eyes see but cannot properly process. Limbs are leaden, his mouth suddenly dry as he watches her lean down slowly, lifting a small bundle with an unmistakable delicacy.

His pulse freezes in his veins.

It is then she sees him, her eyes rounding on contact, but she does not move as he walks towards her through a thick mental fog. He feels disoriented, as if the ground is warped beneath his feet, and he shakes his head, seeking a focus beyond his reach. She is there just before him, and he reaches out with trembling hands, stroking her hair, seeing her eyes close at his touch, answering his question with a glance and a nod.

So much has passed between them. So much there is to say. It cannot be, but it is, yet it seems impossible and frightening and perfect all at once. New life now stirs in the remnants of death, the grip of the future wrapping soundly around his finger and heart as the September sun marks this day as sacred.

In her arms, his life has been forever changed. For in her arms she now holds his son.


	2. An Epilogue

_This epilogue was written to honor those who lost their lives or lost loved ones on 9-11, as well as those whose heroism saved lives that day. _

* * *

She's always with him when they make this annual pilgrimage, giving him a strength he's come to rely on with a simple touch to his arm. They continue to go the day after, to avoid the crowds, to honor those they'd loved and lost when the world they knew imploded around them, to revere memories as they cling to new life.

But she's not here today, and he misses her.

Their son stands beside him instead, dark curls ruffling in the warmer than usual breeze, his grip steady on his daddy's hand, dark eyes rounded and thoughtful as he attempts to take it all in.

"This is where you met Mama?"

He nods, releasing the child's hand in favor of wrapping his arm around small shoulders. There's more history here than a five year old can ever fathom, but it's _his_history, the story of how he came to be, the place that marks the death of so many but the beginnings of his life

"Yes. This is where we met."

He cannot help but smile at the memory.

"And you were both sad—you and Mama."

He stares ahead at the memorial, into the past, breathing in Septembers gone by.

"We were," he answers. "We were both very sad."

He hears the boys sigh, the sound immediately captured by the breeze and whisked away.

"But you're not sad anymore?"

He kneels down then until the two of them are eye to eye—he and his son—his future gazing into his heart.

"No. We're not sad anymore."

The boy's arms wrap around his neck, and he gathers him to his chest, the now so familiar sensation still no less magical. He picks him up and casts a final glance at the memorial, kissing dark curls that could have all too easily not been a part of his life.

"Let's go see your mother," he states, warmed by the beaming expression that gazes back at him, missing tooth and all. "And let you meet your new sister."

An eager nod is his answer, an extra hug his reward, and he cannot help but marvel at it all, at the fact that he now has two children born out of the ashes—a son conceived in the aftermath of wordless grief and a daughter born on the anniversary of what had nearly destroyed him. Those they lost would approve, he knows this as surely as he knows his own name, but the irony of it does not escape him, nor does the raw beauty of such a fractured miracle.

"Thank you," he whispers to the woman who'd taught him to love, to the man who'd first loved his wife, to all of those who had filled someone's heart until their own had ceased to beat. Then he turns in the opposite direction, carrying one child to meet another, allowing the tears he'd been fighting all morning to run freely into his smile.


End file.
